


i just wanna be (the sum of your broken parts)

by seren_ccd



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-17
Updated: 2017-03-17
Packaged: 2018-10-06 14:48:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10336960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seren_ccd/pseuds/seren_ccd
Summary: 'Bellamy smells nice,' is the second thought that comes into Clarke's head.Her third thought is 'How can he smell so nice? He hasn't properly bathed in at least two weeks, how can he smell good?'Naturally, her very first thought is 'Oh, crap, did they see us?'   Future fic, Bellarke.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is absolutely Aj's fault. All of it. But she deserves a serious Thank YOU for the beta! The title is from The Wombat's 'Be Your Shadow'.

‘Bellamy smells nice,’ is the second thought that comes into Clarke’s head.

Her third thought is ‘How can he smell so nice? He hasn’t properly bathed in at least two weeks, how can he smell _good_?’

Naturally, her very first thought is ‘Oh, shit, did they see us?’

That thought came right on the heels of spotting two members of the nomadic group she and Bellamy had been ‘sent’ to ‘observe’ on a ‘recommendation’ by Roan. The next thing she knows, Bellamy’s hands are on her waist and he’s throwing her to the ground into a small depression in the soil. He lands on top of her, yet manages to keep his eyes on the pair a few meters away.

Hence why she’s noticing how nice he smells. She doesn’t go around smelling him. But when he’s lying flat on top of her, her nose a few inches away from his neck, a girl tends to breathe in. And on her swift inhale, she breathes in the smell of wet leaves, sweat, dirt, and boy. It’s nice. Comforting, even.

However, despite his unnaturally decent scent, she glares and pokes his side in retaliation for the throw, but he just gives her a look that she immediately recognises.

They have to be quiet. They have to be still. They’re stuck.

Fucking Roan.

Clarke isn’t entirely sure how this was his fault, but she’s pretty damn sure it is.

She adjusts herself underneath Bellamy as quietly as she can, which apparently isn’t that quiet because he scowls down at her.

She bares her teeth at him and his scowl turns into a smirk and he just arches his stupid eyebrows at her.

Clarke rolls her eyes, but stops moving and just listens to the other two people.

One of them mutters something to the other, but too softly for Clarke to make it out. The other mutters back. Clarke keeps her eyes on Bellamy as he’s the one with eyes on the others. His jaw’s set and his eyes narrowed and she has the most bizarre urge to smooth the tension from his zygomatic arch, but suppresses it with an internal kick to her butt.

There’s another mutter and then the sound of things falling to the ground. 

Clarke stiffens. 

Bellamy stiffens.

Then his eyes widen and his cheeks flush and his already set jaw achieves new levels of tense.

Clarke open her mouth to whisper something, but then she hears it.

A moan.

A low, guttural moan.

Followed by another low, guttural moan and the sound of rustling clothing.

No. Fucking. Way.

Really?

God damn it, Roan.

 _I don’t want to hear this,_ she thinks wildly. _I don’t want to hear this. Oh, fuck, damn it. Give me fucking Reapers, anything but this._

Blood fills her cheeks and she’s sure her face is going to be stuck forever in the form of a cringe. But there’s nothing for it. A phrase she’d once read floats through her head and she tries to just lie back and think of England. But she doesn’t really know anything about England. She does, however, know a lot about being frustrated and so the warmth that fills her cheeks makes its merry way down her neck to her chest. Every groan and murmur from the pair a few meters away shifts the flush from embarrassed to…something else.

Look, it’s been a bad year and despite things having settled into a kind of relative peace, she very rarely has any time to herself, so excuse her for being a bit…whatever. She grits her teeth and tries to think about something else. Anything else.

But it’s very, very hard.

 _Oh, god_ damn _it! Work on your word choices,_ she scolds herself.

She focuses her eyes on the weave of Bellamy’s jacket and tries to count the stitches in an attempt to ignore the coupling sounds of the, uh, couple. Her count falls by the way side when she hears the moans turn...affectionate. One of them clearly has a thing about encouragement and while Clarke can’t make out the actual words, the tone is kind and loving and oh Christ, she fucking _aches_. 

When was the last time anyone had spoken to her like that? Like they want her to feel good? Has anyone ever spoken to her like that? Her heart thuds in her chest and her gaze shifts to Bellamy’s face and oh.

Her eyes meet his.

He’s looking at her and he looks like he’s in pain. The lines are tight around his eyes and God, did he hurt himself when they fell? Is he…?

Her thoughts stutter to a stop when she figures it out.

He’s not in pain.

He’s turned on.

She has no idea what to do with this information and she just stares at him.

The ache in her body pulses.

A loud grunt comes from the other couple and draws Bellamy’s gaze back to them.

Clarke feels bereft without his eyes on her and tries to stamp down every thought she’s ever had about the man currently lying on top of her and how _good_ it would feel to give in to each and every one of them.

He’s her _partner_. He’s the guy who tells her when her ideas are shit and when they aren’t and he… God, he smells fucking amazing.

The ache intensifies.

She moves ever so slightly as if by shifting her body she could shift the thoughts from her mind. Her hips curl in fractionally and come into contact with solid warmth. Solid warmth in the form of Bellamy’s thigh.

Bellamy’s head whips back down to look at her, his eyes wide and that impressive jaw still set in stone.

She stares back at him.

The pair moans in the near distance and oh, God, was that actual flesh striking flesh?

Clarke’s lips tremble and sweat beads along her hairline. Bellamy’s worse off as a drop of his sweat slides down across his temple, then down that gorgeous jawline. Her lips part as she watches and waits and when the droplet finally falls to land on her jacket, she licks her lips.

Bellamy’s brows furrow and she can almost hear his teeth grind, but Jesus God, join the club, she thinks.

Every inch of her yearns and she moves. Her hips shift another fraction.

Bellamy’s hand clamps down on her thigh and she keeps her eyes on him. His eyes narrow in return and something passes behind his eyes. 

Something like a challenge.

Clarke only has a moment to question what the hell she’s doing before he’s pressing his thigh against her.

Clarke loses the ability to breathe.

And, if the tiny catch in his throat is anything to go by, so does he. 

Fuck it. She’s doing this.

It’s not pretty and it’s just on the cusp of satisfying, but she does what she can. She rocks her cunt against his thigh and never looks away from his eyes.

Bellamy holds himself completely still and just lets her use him. Let her take what she can and pretty soon, that’s what frustrates her more than being unable to actually get. the. fuck. off.

So, when the couple makes some seriously _loud_ noises, Clarke palms Bellamy’s cock.

She thinks he might actually go blind for a second with the way his eyes glaze over and oh, fucking finally, his jaw drops. 

He looks down at her and blinks to clear his vision, and she knows, she just _knows_ that he’s going to make her stop – so she squeezes.

His throat works as he swallows and she keeps up the pressure and starts to rock against him again. He shoots her one last look, but then returns to watching the other couple.

And fuck, if that isn’t Bellamy all over. Always looking out for her.

She increases the pressure on his cock and does her best to silently rub her palm up and down his length outside of his pants. He curves his very large and very warm hand under her thigh and presses his own against her and because they’re _them_ and know each other to an uncanny degree, they find a rhythm.

Bellamy never takes his eyes off the other couple and Clarke never takes her eyes off Bellamy. 

At one point his knee slips on the wet leaves beneath them and presses sharply against her.

A sound escapes her throat and she bites her lip to hold it back as stars flash behind her eyes. Bellamy’s hand covers her mouth and she pants against his palm.

She increases her rocking and miraculously, she’s there.

A sharp, tight orgasm rushes through her. Her skin tingles and she bites down on the soft flesh of his palm.

His eyebrows draw together and a furrow appears on his forehead, and she speeds up her hand on his cock and when his jaw loosens, she presses her own hand to his mouth.

His hot breath spreads across her palm as he comes, his hips jerking against her hand, and Clarke has the irrational urge to start giggling. She feels giddiness bubble up in her chest. He presses his hand harder against her mouth to keep it inside. But the satisfied gleam in his own eyes match hers.

He winks, then licks her palm before he glances back at the couple. 

She flicks his nose after taking her hand from his mouth, and then licks his own hand still covering her mouth. His eyes darts down to hers and he tilts his head.

Clarke listens and hears things being picked up off the ground.

The other couple murmurs to one another and eventually, the murmurs fade.

She counts seconds in her head.

When she reaches one hundred, Bellamy lifts himself off Clarke and she winces when he winces at the state of his trousers. 

“Sorry,” she says, her voice scratchy and soft.

He glares at her. “For what, exactly?”

She blinks at his tone and then realizes how he might have taken her apology. “For your pants. Not for anything else.”

“My pants?” he says slowly. “But not for anything else.”

“Should I be sorry for…” She waves a hand in the air. “The ‘anything else’?”

“Depends,” he says. “Is this going to get weird?”

“Of course, it’s going to get weird,” she says. “Have you met us? But we’ll deal with it, like we always do.” She pauses. “With hopefully a bit less death and destruction.”

“Hey,” he says as his lips twitch as though he’s holding back a grin. “Death and destruction’s our thing.”

She snorts. “So is wilfully ignoring stuff.”

“In that case,” he says as he walks back the way they came. “We have two options ahead of us. One, we ignore what just happened and carry on. Or two, ten minutes after we report back to Roan what we found, we go to the supply shed and finish what we started.”

Clarke walks alongside him and thinks. Eventually she nods; her decision made.

“We’ll need to make sure Abby and Kane are there when we talk to Roan,” she says and she ignores his sigh. “I honestly believe that this was some kind of test to see if we’re able to spot potential ways to ally with other groups. They had far more herbs than we do, but the axles on their wagons are close to falling apart.”

“Raven could supply them with something better,” he replies, his voice tight with disappointment at Clarke’s apparent shift back to the status quo. “And we can always use more herbal expertise.”

“Precisely,” she says. “So, since we have to do all that and I’ll need to go over a few things with my mom, we’ll need to make it fifteen minutes and then head to the room at the end of the bunker.”

Bellamy stops and looks at her.

She looks back at him and says with a shrug, “The door on the supply shed doesn’t lock.”

They stare at each other for a long moment.

 _If he kisses me like I think he’s going to kiss me,_ she thinks. _Then this is going to be amazing._

He does and it is.

His hands cup her face with a gentleness that contrasts perfectly with the roughness of his mouth on hers. Clarke moans into his mouth as he licks into her and his fingers lightly massage the base of her skull. She sucks on his lower lip and runs her thumbs across his cheekbones.

They ease back panting and she grins. 

“It’s because you smell good,” she says as she traced the line of his jaw and yeah, she kind of had a thing for his face. “If you didn’t smell so fucking good, this wouldn’t have happened.”

“Yeah? Well, you _feel_ fucking good,” he counters as he presses his forehead to hers. “What are we doing, Clarke?”

She thinks for a moment. She thinks about everything that’s happened between them and everything that could happen between them and answers with, “The inevitable?”

He chuckles and presses a kiss to her forehead. “Yeah. I’ll take it.”

“Do we need to discuss this more?” she asks. “I mean...”

“No,” he says shaking his head. “This? You and me? It was always going to happen. And now that it has?” He smiles a little. “It’s us, Clarke. I know how I feel about you. You know how you feel about me. And we’ll fuck things up and then fix them and have incredible sex in supply sheds and anything we can find that has a lock on it.” He shrugs. “Like you said. Inevitable.”

“I can’t tell if we’re being mature or flippant about this,” she says grinning. “But I’m all for incredible sex.”

He lowers his head and she meets him halfway. This kiss is slower, lazier, and Clarke presses herself as close to him as she can.

Eventually, they pull away and Bellamy grimaces. “We need to go.”

“I know,” she says.

He gives her another look that promises all sorts of things and she smiles at the affection she sees.

Then they head back, their pace brisk.

When their camp’s within sight, Bellamy pulls her behind a tree and presses his mouth to hers and palms her ass. She grips his hair at the base of his neck and kisses him back, hard and fast; then she pulls back. His eyes meet hers.

“Fifteen minutes, princess,” he says, his voice low, sparking a now-familiar ache inside her. “Don’t be late.”

“Nothing short of an apocalypse will stop me,” she says.

He chuckles and points at her. “Don’t jinx us.”

Clarke just grins.

Please.

As if she’d let a mere apocalypse stand in her way.


End file.
